


frisson révolutionnaire

by smithens



Series: ficlets, drabbles, & story collections [2]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M, One Shot Collection, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-08-07 14:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 4,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7718086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets, drabbles, and one shots regarding various characters and relationships within the Friends of the ABC.</p><p>{See chapter index for individual pairings/characters or archive warnings.}</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. carousing and all (Prouvaire & Bahorel) [W: Alcohol/Drug Mentions]

**Author's Note:**

> I highly recommend checking the Full Page Index for this work located here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7718086/navigate. The fanfics are not in chronological-as-written order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for a Tumblr prompt: Prouvaire/Bahorel, rhythm. 
> 
> originally posted on my Tumblr [here](http://smithensy.tumblr.com/post/146194834902/).
> 
> CI: drug and alcohol references.

“Perhaps I spoke too soon, and it is your sense of rhythm that is troublesome.”  
  
In that moment Jean Prouvaire concluded that Bahorel, though adept with his words, was not a man with a musical disposition. Nevertheless he set the flute down, falling backward to lie cross-legged on his bed.  
  
Bahorel took a slow drag of his pipe. Since they had returned the evening prior, Jean Prouvaire’s rooms had been subject to the fumes of tobacco and hashish. He had not minded it last night, but waking to the scent earlier in the afternoon was suffocating more than mind-altering.  
  
He rolled to his side, careful not to knock his flute off of the bed. In his peripheral vision, he saw Bahorel rise and move to the window.  
  
Light flooded the room as he draped back the curtain - which was not a true curtain but an old shawl which Prouvaire had acquired somewhere-or-other, folded and hung from hooks in the window frame. Without the shawl’s red cast, the room lost its haze to the bright afternoon sunshine.  
  
Prouvaire flung his arms above his head, shielding his eyes.  
  
“Put that back,” he said, and the fullness of his own voice surprised him.  
  
Feeling warmth rise to his cheeks, he rolled over to face the bedquilt - and it was the bedquilt to which he directed his soft, mumbled protest: “- and, my sense of rhythm is superlative.”  
  
“Pardon, I fear I did not catch that,” said Bahorel, definitely poking fun, judging by his laugh as he spoke. With his face pressed into his bed, Prouvaire could not see what he was certain was a characteristic grin, nor the typical single raised eyebrow. Frankly, he did not wish to: if his playing the flute was troublesome, Bahorel’s ceaseless teasing was doubly so.  
  
The prior night’s activities had kept them both awake well into the early morning, and neither had woken up before noon. Jean Prouvaire’s head ached.  
  
He felt a shift in the mattress, and then Bahorel’s hand upon the center of his back.  
  
“For your temerity at that painter’s affair,” he continued after a pause, nonchalant, rubbing his hand along back and forth, “carousing and all - one is surprised, to see you so timid again. Not even a defense for yourself as a flautist!”  
  
Jean Prouvaire arched his back against and then away from Bahorel’s hand, stretching his arms in front of him, then relaxed again.  
  
The heat in Paris as of late was unrelenting; relief did not come easily. That, coupled with his headache, and his body sore from the drinking and smoking and art of the previous evening, he wished that he might melt into the mattress.  
  
Bahorel kept speaking, about the night and about the afternoon and about Jehan’s musical prowess in the wake of each, his voice rough and deep - a consistent hum. Prouvaire did not realize he had drifted off - not to sleep, but to somewhere - until Bahorel lay entirely down next to him and slung his arm over his back.  
  
He turned his head, opened his eyes - Bahorel had closed the curtain before, after all, for the room was red again.  
  
Or perhaps that was simply the effect when one looked at Bahorel.  
  
“Jean Prouvaire, you are a man composed of opposites.”  
  
“And you are a man composed of unpredictability,” he murmured, moving once more to lie on his back, that Bahorel’s arm rested upon his belly, “and who therefore ought to appreciate my opposites.”  
  
“Ought to!” whispered Bahorel, in mock-exclamation, tickling his fingers at the side of Prouvaire’s torso - he laughed, in spite of himself, and made no effort now to hide his blushing. “Surely you know I already do?”  
  
And - criticism of his musical abilities aside, and all of Bahorel’s lack of inhibition and his radicalism even with affection - Prouvaire did not think that he could protest. 


	2. any sort of somnambulism (Combeferre & Joly) [W: Alcohol]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from a Tumblr prompt: Joly and Combeferre, "Look into my eyes, what do you see?"
> 
> originally posted on my Tumblr [here](http://smithensy.tumblr.com/post/147263722042/im-bein-greedy-and-asking-for-joly-and).
> 
> CI: alcohol/inebriation.

“Please take me seriously.”

Unfortunately, Combeferre did not appear to be in a mood to take anything seriously at this point, but Joly did not want to abandon faith now.

The silent laughter subsided enough that Combeferre could keep a straight face: his knuckles went pale, and the old pamphlet he was gripping crumpled just slightly. He nodded curtly, his brow furrowed but his lips pressed together, and Joly was struck again by how peculiar he looked without his spectacles.

It struck him then also that Combeferre might have thought the same thing about him.

“Now, Combeferre - look into my eyes, what do you see?”

He touched Combeferre’s wrist gently, rubbing his thumb along the side of his hand, and he seemed to relax his grip.

“You have brown eyes, Joly,” said Combeferre, in a dry tone that, if uninfluenced by alcohol, Joly would have perceived as casually sarcastic. Now, however, Combeferre seemed to be intently serious, and struggling to maintain this composure. “Rather like my own, in fact - mhm, say, philosophically, if - you will allow, perhaps one could pose a comparison between -”

“I do not think you are mesmerised, Combeferre, my friend.”

If there had been any sort of somnambulism to speak for, it dissolved in that moment. Combeferre, with an abrupt laugh, let go of the magnetist’s pamphlet; it fell with a flutter to the arm of the sofa.

For some length of time - Joly did not bother trying to count again - Combeferre simply shook, occasionally making a loud, gasping noise, but mostly silent.

Then his smile faltered.

“No,” he said shortly and he fell forward with his head against his knees, breathless.

For a few seconds more, he was silent. Joly stared at the crown of his head.

“No, Joly, I am very drunk,” came his muffled voice.

Joly stood from his kneeling place and allowed himself a sigh. 

The room was in disarray, with pillows scattered, some books - deemed unuseful - misplaced on the floor, and more than one bottle of something-or-other that they probably oughtn’t have mixed. And Combeferre was in a state on the sofa.

He did not know how he was going to explain this to Lesgle.


	3. citizen (Feuilly)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from a Tumblr prompt: Feuilly in three sentences.
> 
> original [here](http://smithensy.tumblr.com/post/147566711172/).

In the same month three years prior, he was newly arrived in Paris - not even eighteen and dressed for a nîmois winter, travelling on the tenuous and unpredictable generosity of distant friends of friends, in pursuit of deliverance and steady work. An artisan had taken his hands, told him to prove himself, and then taken him on; in the present, he is grateful beyond even his own comprehension, for he has work and he is clothed and sheltered, but he can never forget what little origin he can assemble from his own memory.

It is January, 1829, he is likely one and twenty, and Feuilly remembers his past in bits and pieces - but it is now, surrounded by men who affirm his beliefs and share them, too, who call him “friend” and “citizen” and treat him as an equal, who believe in unity and in justice, that he may look toward the future.


	4. most gallantly (Combeferre & Bahorel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for a Tumblr prompt: Bahorel and Combeferre, _strikhedonia_.
> 
> original [here](http://smithensy.tumblr.com/post/148088792552/).

“As I recall it, when last you took me to the theatre, I returned home with a bruised jaw and a torn coat -”

“You fought _most gallantly_ for a medical student!”

“- and indeed, as I _foresee_ it,” Combeferre continued, standing at his desk to take great care not to look at Bahorel and his exaggerated, plaintive expression, “if this premiere is to be all as anticipated, I would be a great fool to accompany you and still expect a night more favorable of my wellbeing.”

Bahorel tossed a coin onto his desk; when Combeferre - doltishly - turned to look at him, he had adopted a dramatic, pleading stance, and kept his pout. “I should like to take you to an early supper, and I shall even refrain from making demands upon your wardrobe! - if you accompany me. You haven’t eaten, so this is agreeable, is it not?”

Combeferre did not have an overwhelmingly good feeling about attending a play for an inevitable riot of its audience rather than to evaluate its content or reception in peace, or simply to be _entertained_  without risk of a black eye - but he was, indeed, interested, and hungry also, and Bahorel surely wouldn’t relent.

It was not a resignation to fate so much as an acceptance of the most probable outcome: his studies could wait one evening, as he so often let them, Bahorel knew him well enough that he was surely quite aware that Combeferre did have some desire to attend the play in question, even if there were associated risks -

“That is right, Bahorel,” he said. 

Bahorel whooped in response, and in a not even a moment he was tackled, shoved his coat, his hat, and his key, then promptly grabbed by the arm and lead from his own apartment.

“Do not get accustomed to my saying so.”

“I’d never dream of such a thing! Aha, we are to meet Prouvaire in short time, then the others, and - eh, you know him, but I must ask you to be kind about his _finery_ , or any others’…”

Bahorel went on speaking with great enthusiasm, explaining both the plan and the people he was going to meet in great - and, hopefully, embellished - detail.

Even if he did end up injured once again, Combeferre could not deny the merits of the evening ahead of him; indeed, he took joy also in allowing himself the distraction. Bahorel, though smug, seemed quite glad to have his company, Jean Prouvaire would be the same, and that would surely make an afternoon and evening of whatever frights accompanied hundreds of Romantics more bearable.

He only hoped that _Hernani_ would leave him unharmed.


	5. respectable friend (Feuilly & Courfeyrac) [W: Alcohol]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from a Tumblr prompt: why didn't you write me [a letter] back? for a pairing of choice.
> 
> original [here](http://smithensy.tumblr.com/post/148622184337).

_1828_

“And,” Courfeyrac says, leaning forward against the table on his elbows in order to ease his general feeling of wobbliness, “as I am now returned for the foreseeable future, presuming of course no other extended cousin of mine falls ill again, and as I have regaled you, Feuilly, my cornered and yet kindly listener, with tales of the financial affairs of my great uncle who is regrettably close to his death, I may now comfortably ask you -”

Across from him, Feuilly’s nose scrunches up in some expression of confusion, but he smiles - albeit weakly. Courfeyrac wonders if perhaps he is less sober than he thinks, and if he is disconcerting his friend, but somehow his mouth cannot relay this information when he wishes it to, and he continues on his former line of thought:

“- why, Feuilly, my respectable friend, did you not write me back, for I did send you a letter - and I had to find my way to Pau to do so, because I can never trust my brother with the bearing of whatever I send to you all here in Paris -”

Courferac’s mouth catches up with his brain, at least in the manner of stopping, precisely in the moment Feuilly’s eyes widen a little. This is a small tell, but a known one.

He closes his mouth and shifts his limbs enough to rest his head in the palm of his hand.

Slowly, Feuilly is shaking his head, and it is a very concerning gesture.

“You wrote to me,” he says softly.

It is stated as a wonderful fact learned in an unexpected place, and for only the second time for the night in the informal - the tone is rather like, thinks Courfeyrac, when Combeferre finds a stone with a slightly different geological formation than he is used to, or when Enjolras meets with a man whom he has inspired and tells the story afterward - only, is this so exciting?

“Ye-eees,” Courfeyrac says, drawing the word out more for its phonetic effect than of any intent of expression. (He is most definitely less sober than he thought.) “Twice, until I recalled - eh, postage.”

Feuilly turns a little pink. “Forgive me, Courfeyrac, I confess that I mustn’t have received either of them, or I - of course, I would have replied to you.”

“Damn,” says Courfeyrac, and he means it. “And here I thought -”

“- ah, you needn’t have. I can imagine. Truly,” Feuilly adds hastily, and Courfeyrac slumps to rest on the tabletop itself.

“I will make it up to you somehow,” he says, because the joy of receiving a letter from an estranged friend is probably one of life’s greatest, and then turns to face the woodgrain. “For now, I will sit here and ruminate on my lost inheritance.”

Feuilly finally laughs aloud, at that, and Courfeyrac feels, after a pause, three tentative pats on his head.

Yes, he will indeed have to make it up somehow.


	6. features transformed (Feuilly & Courfeyrac)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for a nonsexual acts of intimacy meme on Tumblr.

Hearing the sound of a second discharge, Feuilly turned again: the men huddled near Enjolras had bowed their heads or looked away with pressed-closed eyes, but he could not prevent himself from staring. **  
**

This was an event which no one had anticipated. Beside him, seated on a splintered ledge of the barricade, Courfeyrac had responded to the action in kind. Together they watched.

Enjolras spoke loudly enough that he was audible even several paces away, but he did not shout. When, in a burst of emotion, Combeferre called out in reply, that too was clear. Slowly, the others began again to look. Enjolras stood tall, continued - and then his voice dropped. Feuilly felt a tremor down his spine.

He tore his eyes away from the scene before him only because he felt Courfeyrac grip at his knee.

“Love, the future is thine,” repeated Courfeyrac, uncharacteristically serious, his pleasant features transformed into an expression of firm, but kind, resolve. His eyes were wet with tears; this, too, was not usual - but innately, Feuilly understood.

Without a word, Feuilly set his own hand atop Courfeyrac’s, entwining their fingers and pressing his palm to the back of his hand. The pressure of Courfeyrac’s grip against his knee increased, and then relaxed.

Feuilly scanned the barricade, and then the surrounding area, before turning again to meet Courfeyrac’s eyes. It seemed he had only just fought back shedding tears.

Courfeyrac gave a nod, and Feuilly returned it solemnly, unable to make himself smile.

When they parted their hands a moment later, and then in minutes returned to other stations, neither said a word - but Feuilly felt deeply that it was not yet time for goodbye.


	7. stutter (Feuilly & Courfeyrac)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for a word/phrase prompt meme on Tumblr.

“Come, you must know by now that he thinks immeasurably high of you, Feuilly,” says Courfeyrac, attempting to convey his insistence with a gentle pat of Feuilly’s knee. They’re in a café a fair distance from either of their normal neighborhoods, speaking in hushed tones. The sound of rain outside helps only a little to mask their voices, but Courfeyrac cannot help but be more emphatic in his assertion: “In any case, he will not be disappointed, it was a very common mistake - indeed, it was my own fault, was it not? But no matter, for it is in the past.”

“No,” Feuilly murmurs, and he doesn’t shy away from Courfeyrac’s impromptu touch, either - of course - Courfeyrac ought to remember to be more careful with that sort of thing, anyhow, but it still makes his heart skip, a little. That is a true sign of friendship, he thinks. “No, and I know that it was no grave mistake, but I still say that I meant no harm at all -”

“- and none have you caused! Enjolras is pleased; our little obstacle is over and done with, we are free to do whatever we wish, and as far away from the quarries as we please -”

“My frie - Courfeyrac. You are very kind, but I do not worry over disappointing Enjolras, and I know that the task is through.”

Courfeyrac laughs, speaks too loud before he thinks: “you quite never could, so that is all very…” 

He trails off for a moment as he realises what he has actually just heard.

“What was that, Feuilly?”

“I… do not worry over disappointing Enjolras?” 

Feuilly does move away now, tilting his head away to look out the rain-speckled window, and though Courfeyrac suddenly wishes he could do something more physical, he clasps his own hands together so as not to discomfort Feuilly anymore than he must.

“Prior. I am temporarily losing my hearing. It is the rain, clearly.”

“What, shall I praise again? I said, _you are very kind_ ,” Feuilly says, too deliberately.

Courfeyrac stares at him as though he is a puzzle which needs solving, and then realises that his ears did not, in fact, deceive him.

Feuilly picks his cap up from the table, puts it onto his head, and smiles, and Courfeyrac cannot resist replying, “ _that_ is not what you said.”

“That is right. In any case, we ought to be going now.”

“Feuilly.”

“It is getting late, after all. _You and I_ can afford no more mistakes.”

Courfeyrac follows suit as Feuilly stands to leave, only to find as they step outside that he wishes that he had taken the advice of his friends and brought an umbrella after all. He turns to express this to Feuilly, the jest momentarily forgotten, only to find him beaming even as his hat becomes soaked.

“I thought you wouldn’t ever notice,” he says.

“Well,” Courfeyrac manages, and then stammers out, “I have been doing so for longer, so one could say that, _really_ -”

“And now I can reciprocate,” Feuilly replies plainly, and he takes Courfeyrac’s arm and tugs him along beside him. 

Courfeyrac feels his heart stutter once more.


	8. absolutely hellish (Combeferre & Bahorel) [W: Alcohol/Drug Mentions]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for a prompt: under the influence. this is also for à force d'amitié, but i'm not posting it separately from these pieces :)

“You look absolutely hellish.”

“That - have we met?”

Bahorel paused to survey the man below him: bespectacled, dissheveled, and sorely underdressed for the occasion. His eyes seemed tired, with dark circles beneath them, and his dark, probably wavy hair looked as though it had gone uncombed for a few days. His brandy appeared to have been either downed or dumped out, and he was sitting crosslegged on a cushion on the floor. (Albeit, there was no furniture in the room to begin with, so this was likely the best he could have done.)

He had seen others along these lines, of that he was sure; this one, however, was new.

“I dare say we haven’t, my good man, but I do not stand corrected,” he said, “so what say you that I get you another of whatever that was, and you tell me your troubles?”

“I should like to refuse, actually,” the man replied, and then he buried his face in his hands. Bahorel noted the blood on the edge of his coats’ cuffs and the collar of his blouse, and decided that he would persist in his persuasion.

“Then you talk, and I shall get myself a drink -”

“That truly is unnecessary -”

“I suppose that you’ve murdered someone?”

 “- as I wish to be - pardon?” the man said, finally looking up from his hands.

“Well, that is among the assumptions a man could make, is it not?” said Bahorel, and he dropped to sit on the floor across from him, sans cushion. Surprisingly, the room was slightly less hazy from the floor. “You are covered in blood stains, you look morally ill-at-ease, you have had at least one drink, you are fraternizing with other men under the influence…”

To his credit, but unfortunately for Bahorel, the man seemed scandalized. A pity he had not come across a storyteller.

“No, I’ve had examinations. I attend the medical school,” he said coolly, bringing one hand to his face to straighten his crooked glasses. He looked to his empty mug of brandy, then into Bahorel’s eyes, then quickly across the room.

“That is close enough, and perhaps a better explanation after all! Now: it is a pleasure to meet you, knowing you are not a murderer. You may call me Bahorel. Everyone does.”

“I should think that a surgeon does quite the opposite thing as a murderer, Bahorel.”

“Some say that about lawyers, as well, but I have found that I must disagree with them. It is an intellectual quandry of mine. Tell me - you are a prospective surgeon, yes? Do you have a name alongside your aspiration?”

“It is Combeferre.”

“I am charmed.” 

“I am not. Please let me alone.”

Bahorel shrugged and stood, making the decision that he would go speak to the escaped Polytechnique student in the meantime.

In the morning, he woke before anyone else, with his feet on an Egyptian cushion, and head on a Chinese rug, little concept of time, and a folded note tucked into the loosened collar of his shirt. Upon realizing what was scratching his neck, he unfolded it.

It read, in scrawled, jagged penmanship:

_M. Bahorel -_

_Forgive me for my impropriety last night. I have been inordinately irate as of late, and drink is of no help. Nevertheless, I was told of your political sympathies by my companion and would like to remedy my behavior. See my address above. Come by when you would like, but soon - I hope to be moving nearer to a hospital, pending the results of my exams._

_\- M. Combeferre_

It would not hurt to go by, thought Bahorel, and he promptly reoriented himself on the floor, then went back to sleep.


	9. such an unreasonable hour (Courfeyrac & Marius) (M/M)

“You, _Monsieur l'Abbé_ , are utterly befuddling,” Courfeyrac pronounced, precisely at the moment his door opened.

Marius, entering their now-shared room with a great and failed attempt at being quiet and inconspicuous, started, and then jumped further still when he noticed that Courfeyrac was perched on the foot of his bed in his pyjamas.

“So often now you are home late, and yet dressed well - or, dressed so well for you - that I cannot help but confront you: surely your examinations are not at such an unreasonable hour?”

“My… examinations,” repeated Marius. He took off his hat and coat, then stood with his arms awkwardly stiff at his sides.

In the lamp glow, Marius’s dark, curly hair shone a little, and the line of his jaw seemed more defined. Courfeyrac could not help but notice that his cravat was nearly impeccable, his collar buttoned tightly to his chin, and his cuffs and waistcoat orderly. This eliminated the other, much more obvious possibility, and also the one which Courfeyrac himself found the most reasonable for a man around his age.

Marius, unfortunately, was both a bit younger and far less reasonable, and so perhaps he ought not have assumed anyhow.

“You are courting!” exclaimed Courfeyrac, hopping from his seat. “Which young lady’s father and mother keep such hideous hours, then?”

“I - she - well, we…” Marius stammered, and as he trailed off he turned to move toward the mattress on the floor. _As though you’ve been using it lately_ , thought Courfeyrac, and then he made best use of this thought by staring at Marius with an attempt at haughtiness. Marius, unaffected, began to undress.

“I am not courting anyone, Courfeyrac. I’ve no permission.”

“Yes, that is quite reasonable,” replied Courfeyrac, “for you are young, and you are ridiculous, and not yet used to punctuality, or - or, homemaking” - and he felt a pang of guilt in his chest at the blush blooming across Marius’s cheeks.

“But I do love her.”

Courfeyrac had been reaching for Marius’s arm, but he stopped at the emphatic, murmured words, holding his hand in mid-air.

…whatever emotion that was, Courfeyrac decided he was better off without it.

“In any case,” he said, slowly and carefully, “I’ve not abased you to the floor yet. Have I?”

Marius, true to himself, did not answer.

By the time he had undressed - and some mornings, Courfeyrac had noticed that even that had gone unmanaged the night prior - he seemed too tired to discuss the matter further. Perhaps it was the fact that he had arrived late at night regardless; Courfeyrac, mustering great will, told himself that that conversation ought to be had another time, anyhow. After extinguishing the lamp, he climbed into his own bed without saying more.

Even before Courfeyrac requested it, however, Marius came to join him, making a contented noise as Courfeyrac wrapped his arms around his chest.

The kiss which Courfeyrac pressed to the back of Marius’s neck neither expressed his affection or assuaged his guilt. It did, however, earn him a soft, kindly sigh, and so he felt satisfied that their arrangement would stay unchanging for just a while longer.


	10. feeling blithe (Feuilly & Courfeyrac) (M/M)

“Why, I hadn’t expected to see you here!” **  
**

“Nor I,” Feuilly replied truthfully. Courfeyrac, beaming, took his arm and did a half spin on his toes; feeling blithe himself, Feuilly swung a little alongside him.

“And dancing, hm?”

Feuilly’s cheeks warmed at the implication lurking beneath Courfeyrac’s words: one, that he really had been seen, two, that… whatever else Courfeyrac could have meant. The young woman he’d partnered with had been round-cheeked and bright-eyed, with auburn hair and an ochre gown. She had seemed more appropriate to draw than to dance with, then, he had never thought of himself one for dancing. (Even if, at a function such as this, to ask for a model would surely lead to an undeserved reputation.)

Perhaps, then, Courfeyrac’s utter surprise made some sense.

“Only dancing - and not for any longer,” he settled on saying, and Courfeyrac laughed.

“I said nothing else, Feuilly, my friend.”

He didn’t release his hold upon Feuilly’s arm, and yet they each stood there, unspeaking for another slightly-awkward moment, punctuated by applause around them as those dancing took a pause themselves.

When the band again began to play, Feuilly grasped his courage to depart; before he was able to complete a sentence, however, Courfeyrac lifted his hand and kissed it.

And then he quickly let go, stepping back a pace and a half as though burned.

“The next time you come you ought to say, beforehand. I will introduce you to - acquaintances.”

Feuilly looked at his own hand, then to Courfeyrac’s blushed-pink and still smiling face.

“I’ll be sure to,” he said, before immediately leaving to gather his coat.

As he did so, he made sure, after a second, to meet Courfeyrac’s eyes and smile.


	11. part of a whole (Courfeyrac)

It is good, Courfeyrac knows, to be a part of a whole, to forge connections between himself and others and maintain them. Certainly if to be the center of attention is desirable, than to be the center of each of his friends, a pivotal link in the chain, is even better: yet sometimes he finds that his role in life is still quieter than all he wishes. What strong opinions he possesses have granted him several ill-received gifts, in the past: a now-expunged arrest, some injuries, the loss of companions and even family.

Courfeyrac is fully aware that sometimes it is important to sit and watch and listen and understand, as Enjolras, to cultivate his mind and sharpen his wit and branch outside of what he knows to be true, as Combeferre. This he can do now at their sides, in the lamplight of a Musain meeting come to a close.

He has his moments with each of them, but theirs is one complementary connection which he won’t lay claim to (even though he could, logically). But even they two invite him in just as the others, moreso, even, and although his feelings for them both have not yet surpassed boyish, attached sentiment, it is at their center, now, where he is most comfortable.


	12. refuge (Prouvaire) [W: Alcohol/Drug mentions]

For days his torso has felt as though its insides have been stolen from him, weightless as down, his head as though to its brim laden with melancholy: yet no matter his feelings, nor the pain which they cause, Jean Prouvaire cannot possibly wish them away. Surely even to hide away in his rooms as a badger to a burrow, overcome with emotion, is an improvement upon visiting with others outside, starved to express himself freely, bound to standard. Indeed, it was visiting, not burrowing, which lead him cruelly to his awakening. Therefore: to contort himself in various poses on his sofa with a well-read volume mends the pain even after whatever drink it is which Bahorel left in his flat wears off, and he will take refuge in solitude.


End file.
